Twelve

Damien

 

I leaned against the wall, barely ten feet from the pure black headstone with my mother’s name on it.

Her name was engraved in white, but the morning sunlight glinted off it as if it were silver. It was almost blinding to look at the stone—but always painful. The stone was perfectly polished, but the grass was only barely trimmed. Weeds licked at the back and sides of the memorial, too leafy and green to be grass or wildflowers.

Not that wildflowers would grow here. It was a miracle the grass did.

She was closer to the desert than the city. Tucked out of the way, safely away from the hubbub and remembrance of the city she’d called home her entire life.

A glance to the headstone to her right reminded me that it didn’t matter how far away she was; she was never alone.

I ignored it. That one hurt more than my mother’s.

That stone belonged to the catalyst.

The person who, through no fault of their own, destroyed everything.

Who shredded my life as I once knew it.

Looking at their name was almost too much to bear. Sometimes, I could do it. Other times, it was unthinkable.

Today was one of those other days. It hurt too much. It was one of the days where I wish I had my mother here to talk to. It was a day where I wished I pay every cent I had just to get one answer from her. To hear her voice for a split second would be worth everything I owned. I’d sell my soul to feel her hug me again—to be wrapped in her warm embrace and be enveloped by the smell of warm vanilla and lavender.

The memory of my mother was more than my life was worth. I was sure of few things, but that was one of them.

Cold stone dug into my back through my t-shirt.

It was like ice, despite the blazing heat from the sun overhead.

My mom’s name was still nothing but a mass of reflection from the light.

Yet, I stared.

I stared until I was blinded.

Until my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Until I turned out of the tucked-away cemetery and headed back to the city, ignoring the buzzing against my thigh.

 

***

 

My feet pounded against the asphalt rhythmically. I couldn’t say that I liked running—I tolerated it. It was an excellent stress reliever. There was something soothing about the pounding of my feet against the concrete paths that lined the city that beat the emotion right out of me.

Emotion was easy to hold on to. It gripped hold of you like an icy winter, clinging until it was forced out by something stronger—something warmer.

Running was that for me.

A way of ridding myself, even momentarily, of the dark cloud that hung over me every day. Far from enjoyable but, dare I say it, now necessary. Necessary to shake off the occasional nightmare and more than occasional memory.

Maybe after all these years I should have been able to sleep better than I did. Maybe I should have been man enough to admit that the reason nobody was allowed to contact me before one p.m. wasn’t because I was sleeping but because I was running. Because I was escaping, taking in the past so I could confront the present.

That was what grief was. Accepting the past and confronting the past. The future had jack-all to do with it. It was collateral damage to the pain that wavered daily.

At least, that’s how it was to me.

Today, it was painful.

Mom’s birthday always was.

I wanted—needed—to forget her. She’d been my Achilles heel when she was alive and now, even in her death, she was still. God only knew she’d put herself in some dumb situations, but it was the final one that always got me—the one where I wasn’t able to help her.

Where I couldn’t save her.

Where no amount of punches I took for her would have mattered.

I slowed outside the coffee shop I’d parked outside earlier and scrubbed my hand through my hair. Sweaty, dirty, dank—I was a sight and scent for sore eyes, but it was barely eight. The only people awake were those who ran, like me, and the ones who had a job to get to.

Entering the small shop, I was able to get straight to the counter. The blond behind the counter was the same young girl who served me at least five days a week, but I was fucked if I knew her name. She momentarily frowned when I ordered two coffees instead of one, but she recovered quickly enough that anybody else wouldn’t notice the change in her demeanor.

Within seconds, she was back to her usual, flirtatious self. Usually, it wouldn’t bother me. I’d welcome it. Relish it, even. It would be a regular part of my day.

Today, I wanted her to shut the hell up and make my fucking coffee.

The minutes felt like a goddamn hour, and I grunted my “Thank you” as I paid. Then, once she’d printed the receipt I didn’t care about, I grabbed the cup holder and left.

If today were a few weeks ago, before I met Dahlia, I might have used the barista to make myself feel better. For my own selfish needs. There was no doubt she’d look damn pretty on her knees in front of me—but now, that thought mildly annoyed me.

The only person I wanted on their knees in front of me came with dark hair, blue eyes, and a cutting tongue.

I nestled the coffees onto the passenger seat before rounding the car and getting in the driver’s side. I had no idea if the woman currently consuming my thoughts was even at home, but hell, I’d done the thing I never did and bought her a coffee, so I was gonna go there anyway.

Ten minutes later, I was permitted past the security that surrounded her estate and drove through the large, black gates. While I’d known her address the moment I’d looked her up, I’d assumed she lived inside a community and that the gates that surrounded her property were part of that, but I was wrong. They were personal—hers. The gates protected only her house.

I pulled up the gravel driveway at a snail’s pace. I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous, but right now, as I put my car into park and twisted the key from the ignition, nerves tickled across my skin.

How would Dahlia react to me when, the last time we’d spoken, she’d blown me off and I’d been nothing but short and sharp with her?

In my defense—she’d pissed me off. While she was stern and organized professionally, she was the complete opposite personally. She was flaky and indecisive, the kind of person who needed corralling into just about everything.

Well, damn it.

The woman would have dinner with me at my house if it meant I had to throw her on my shoulder in her pajamas and fucking carry her there myself.

I gripped the coffee holder tight as I approached her front door. Wide, curved steps accented the rich, mahogany doors that were elaborately engraved, and my foot had barely hit the top step when one of those doors swung open.

Dahlia stood there in front of me, wearing a form-fitting, pale-pink dress and a scowl.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I drawled. “Is that the expression you usually have when someone brings you coffee?”

“Actually,” she said slowly, her eyes flitting between my t-shirt and the coffee, “I think it’s one that only developed when I met you.”

My lips tugged to one side. “Coffee?” I held the cups out to her.

“What’s this? A peace offering?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Do you regularly turn up to women’s houses post-workout with them?”

“I haven’t given a peace offering since I was thirteen and ripped the head off my little sister’s Barbie.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I froze for the briefest moment, a nauseating feeling ripping through my stomach, but if she noticed, she didn’t address it.

Instead, she shrugged a shoulder and pointed to the coffee on the left. “Mine?”

“Whichever. They’re the same.”

“I suppose I should let you in.” She stepped back, pushing the door open a little more.

“Is the ice queen thawing this morning?”

“You brought coffee. If I were a tornado, I’d pause my destruction for coffee.” Laughing, she turned, leaving me to close the door.

It clicked shut behind me, and I cast my attention over a surprisingly warm hallway. A curved staircase took up a good portion of the space to my right, and just below it to its left was a deep red chaise accented by a giant bouquet of white roses in a vase fit for a damn castle. Photos covered the walls. Dahlia’s life was chronicled the way most people used photo albums and, these days, social media.

From newborn to kindergarten. There were parties and graduations and smiles and friends. Laughter and love practically fell out of the images. The only thing that said that this was a broken family was the fact that, about a third of the way along the wall, three family members became two.

Her mom disappeared.

Pausing, I stepped up to the last photo of her on the wall. It was of her and Dahlia, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say I was staring at Dahlia as an adult herself. Her mom had the same, soft curves to her face. The same full lips that curved into a similar smile. The same thick, dark hair Dahlia did. The only difference was the eyes—her mom’s were light where hers were indigo.

Dahlia cleared her throat, causing me to look in her direction. “You’d be a riot at a party.”

I half-grinned as she approached me and took the coffees. Hesitating only a moment, I said softly, “You look just like her.”

She took a deep breath and forced a smile.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

Not even close.

She turned and led me into a spacious kitchen. The light-brown cupboards gave the open space a rustic, farmhouse feel, and that was only exaggerated by the vintage-looking table on the other side of the room and the homey decorations that adorned the walls.

She placed the coffees on the long, curved breakfast bar and pulled them both from the holder. I leaned against the countertop as she threw the holder in the trash.

“I’d rather I didn’t,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Look like my mom. It would easier if I didn’t see her when I looked in the mirror.” Sad eyes glanced at me, but before I could apologize, she chirped up, “Cream and sugar?”

“There’s already cream in them. No sugars, because I didn’t know how you like it.” If she could gloss over my freezing at the mention of my sister, I wouldn’t apologize for her pain.

What would I be apologizing for, anyway? I’d only be saying sorry that she’d been genetically blessed but that life hadn’t blessed her the same way.

She slid a small pot of sugar toward me. “In case you want it. And, for future reference, should you need to make peace with coffee again, I take one sugar in my coffee, but two in my tea.”

“Fancy.” I grinned as I put two sugars in my cup. “But that information is noted. Whether I’ll remember it or not is another matter entirely.”

With a roll of her eyes, she dumped a heaped teaspoon of sugar into her coffee.

“Oh, come on. That was at least two teaspoons!”

A guilty smile crept over her face. “Technically speaking, it’s one. It’s just a big one.”

“Is this like when women in the movies eat salads so their dates don’t think they’re greedy?”

“If it were, you’d be a serial killer in your sweaty, muddy t-shirt.” She pointed her spoon toward a mark at the side of my shirt that I hadn’t even noticed until now. “That, or a porn movie where a runner thinks they’re being followed and knocks on the door of a random house.”

“That would be more effective if our roles were reversed.”

“True.” She gave her coffee one final stir and threw the spoon behind her into the sink. “So. A peace offering, huh?”

I sipped my coffee. “Yep. For being rude on the phone to you yesterday.”

“Who are you and what did you do with Damien Fox?”

“I told you—I’m his charming twin brother. I broke out of my cupboard under the stairs when he turned his back.”

“There’s a name for people who have voices in their heads, you know.”

“Yeah, they’re called authors. You have an entire bar based around them.”

Dahlia paused. Then, she laughed. She threw her head back and she freaking laughed—gently yet loudly. “Well played, Mr. Fox,” she managed to say through her giggles. “Apology accepted, by the way. I’m sorry for bailing on dinner.”

“Nothing came up, did it?”

“Maybe.”

I stared at her. She wasn’t going to budge. “All right, but now, you owe me.”

“I owe you?”

“You owe me. What are you doing right now?”

“Uhh.” She paused, but she met my eyes. “Trying to think of literally anything I could be doing that doesn’t involve you?”

Grinning, I said, “Come and have breakfast with me.”

“At your house?”

I shook my head. “But I do need to go and get changed. I can pick you up here or at the bar.”

She sighed. “I’ll be here. Just don’t take forever. I have to work.”

I held my hands up. “I have an interview at eleven-thirty. Give me half an hour. I’ll be right here.”